Recently my poor husband was infected with the big-screen-virus. He’s had this terrible infection for the past two months. He spends hours and hours saddled in a chair searching frantically for reviews and hot sales on a short list of equipment that he believes will cure him. He simply must have a big screen. When I ask him how he’s feeling or what he’s up to, I hear about speakers, receivers and ideal locations in our house for the big screen.
I just can’t show any enthusiasm for this because neither of us watch much TV and if anything, I watch more than he does. It leaves me baffled that he caught the big-screen virus and I did not.
Unfortunately this virus is progressive, and he moved into stage four last week when he called and left a message saying he’d be home 20 minutes later than usual.
Hours later his commuting buddy called me and asked how I liked the speakers my husband picked up. I laughed and thought he was just yanking my chain, knowing I was not infected with big-screenitis. But the commuting buddy insisted he wasn’t joking and that my late returning husband was somewhere in Stanwood picking up speakers.
More hours passed and my husband returned.
He didn’t mention the speakers. I shared my deep worry about him being out on the highways, lost with this virus in his head, and couldn’t imagine why he was so late.
He then explained that he “had to” leave work early to get this incredible deal on speakers. His “car” didn’t realize how long it would take to get to Camano Island to buy the speakers. The island must have floated farther away. But he found a guy selling roomfuls of speakers. Shelf after shelf, room after room, lined with speakers.
It sounded like the sort of place the cops would like to know about.
Honey, how do you think Mr. Speaker came by all these? My poor infected husband didn’t realize that this was odd; he just thought maybe the guy had an obsession. This coming from a guy who has spent two months talking about a big screen.
He unloaded his speakers from the trunk of his car. He doesn’t have them hooked up to anything, but I don’t suppose that matters.
I tried to reason that we might not be able to afford the big screen, but he is way past the point of comprehending that the dryer is threatening to go on strike and our cars are beginning to twitch. Nothing has actually stopped working, so I don’t suppose it matters.
I thought I needed to leverage everything I could to make my point. I decided I would use the power outage situation to my advantage. Maybe while we are sitting in our dark, cold house, eating potato chips for dinner, I’ll have his full attention.
At the news of the next oncoming storm I made my move.
I explained to my husband that I didn’t want to see a big screen until we had a generator.
There, that ought to get the priorities lined up. I thought that would kill the big-screen bug once and for all.
Well the plan backfired. My husband flew out the door and raced to Sears like a man with his tail on fire. In fact, the people working at Sears greeted him personally at the door. He called them from the ferry, frantic and desperate sounding. I’m sure the people at Sears wondered what has gotten into people from Whidbey Island facing another power outage.
With great fanfare and kindness, the folks at Sears led my desperate husband to the generator.
I just went through two power outages with my beloved generator. I guess we’ll be watching the next storm on a big screen.
Sarri Gilman is a freelance writer living on Whidbey Island. Her column on living with meaning and purpose runs every other Tuesday in The Herald. She is a therapist, a wife and a mother, and has founded two nonprofit organizations to serve homeless children. You can e-mail her at features@ heraldnet.com.
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